Giving Thanks
by LittleLeto
Summary: Zevran and Maur'ae Surana find themselves in a pickle when they arrive in Kirkwall...and are grateful for the help of Fenris and Hawke. Very grateful, in fact. Set in the Per Ardua Ad Astra universe but can be read as stand-alone. Mild adult themes but nothing explicit.


_I've written this one-shot as a thank-you to Shaina (I spelled it right this time! :D) for her wonderful artwork which accompanies my story, Per Ardua Ad Astra, at: xrenaix . deviantart . com / (remove spaces) . The story is set in the PAAA universe, but is told mainly from the PoV of her warden - the wonderful Maur'ae Surana. I hope I've done him justice, Shaina!_

_And to my always-wonderful beta-reader Mary: I'd be lost without you. Thank you, sincerely._

~o~O~o~

I _told_ him we shouldn't have gone into the Hanged Man!

I told him, but he always gets me with that bloody voice of his! He knows _exactly_ which tone to use to mollify me, and which tone always gets me…well, never mind. You don't need to know _that_.

What happened was, we relocated to Kirkwall. All right…_fled _might be a better word. You see, after almost two years of the world and its dog wanting something from me - and offering not so much as a thank-you or kiss-my-arse in return - _and_ after defeating both an Archdemon _and _a broodmother, I'd had enough. Alistair – no, _King _Alistair, if you please - had finally given that blackguard Eamon the boot and actually seemed to be happy; and, with Nathaniel – also a blackguard, but in a _good_ way - installed as the new Warden-Commander and Arl, I felt I'd done my bit (and, between you and me, I didn't want to be around when Morrigan changed her mind and came after me for Old God child maintenance).

So, Zev and I found an old map of Thedas and I closed my eyes and pointed to a random place, landing on Kirkwall. And when we arrived, as we stepped off the boat, no one batted an eyelid at us. It was _bliss_.

Anonymity, however, brings its own set of problems. After finding a place called the Blooming Rose – yes, _Zevran_, never mind arranging lodgings, food, clothing or whatever - _he _wanted to sniff out the local brothel first, claiming that the pedigree of any city lies in the quality of its whores. And, even after all this time, I fell for it.

Still, we didn't have an entirely unpleasant afternoon; Zev even managed to wangle some food and drink out of the proprietors. I have to hand it to him: he could charm the hind legs off a bronto. Charm is not a commodity I possess in spades, and, as I tell him, it's always handy to have a Zevran around.

Anyway. After leaving the Blooming Rose, we set out in search of lodgings. We'd had a few recommendations from the whores, most of whom had suggested the Hanged Man. So, all excited, we followed their directions…and then we actually _saw_ the place. It was an absolute dump. Zev was game, but, as much as I dislike most of what comes with being the Hero of Ferelden, one upside of it is that I get to sleep in swank accommodation. I knew we'd have to go downmarket to stay incognito, but this was going too far.

Disappointed, but undeterred, we headed for the next establishment on our list. And then we discovered the downside of no one knowing who you are. We asked for it, really; two elves, one with tattooed cheeks and a collection of no fewer than twelve daggers hanging off his belt, and another elf, wearing a red and purple robe with black flames tattooed around his eyes. And carrying a staff. I suppose running into the templars was inevitable. I think what really caught their attention was the fact I carried two daggers of my own; they didn't seem to like_ that_ very much.

After they'd chased us through most of the area known as Lowtown, we gave them the slip, finding ourselves back at the Hanged Man. I hesitated at first, groaning at the sign above the door advertising _theme nights_ and inviting patrons to wear fancy dress. I shuddered at the thought, until Zev nudged me in that way he does, and I knew I was going to lose the argument before it had even begun.

"It is perfect for us, no, carino?" he drawled, his eyebrows waggling in that way they do, his smile spreading as my own lips puckered tighter. "Perhaps it is Templar Theme Night tonight, who knows? I have just thought of a simply _delightful_ game we could play later. Let us go in, yes?"

Realising that our options were dwindling, I trudged in after him with all the enthusiasm of a dog that has just heard its master call, "Bath time!" leaving Zev to do all the charming. That is, after all, one of his many talents.

~o~O~o~

"I must say, Hawke, you've really gone to town with your costume; you nailed it, even down to the tattoos." Varric raised his pint to his friend, and then to Fenris and Anders, also seated at their table.

"I'm not sure if I ever saw Maur'ae wearing a _cloak_, though," Anders remarked, pointing to the fancy velvet material, secured with gold braid rope, which trailed down Fletcher's back.

"A cloak? Is that what it's supposed to be?" queried Fenris, who had yet to enter into the spirit of the Hero of Ferelden theme night. "_I_ thought it was one of the curtains from the mansion. Perhaps I am in error, though."

"At least_ I'm _making an effort," Fletcher – who was also wearing a pair of fake elf ears – teased his lover. "Do _you _like my tattoos?"

"Would you like a truthful or diplomatic answer to that?" Fenris asked, taking a small sip of wine, his eyes dancing.

"Well, I happen to like them," answered the mage, folding his arms. "I'm thinking of having them done permanently, actually."

"You wouldn't dare," snorted Fenris, not at all convinced.

"You'll have them for a while, anyway, Hawke," Anders chipped in. "A few weeks, at least."

Fletcher grinned, shaking his head, before he realised that Anders was actually serious, and his smile died away. "Wh-what do you mean, _weeks_?"

"What do you expect, Hawke? Henna _does _last that long."

"_Henna_?" Fletcher squawked, forgetting that his mouth was full of ale, and most of it ended up down the front of his robe. "What did you go and use bloody henna for?"

"You told me to use something that lasts!" Anders protested.

"I meant to last for _tonight, _you idiot!" spluttered the mage. "And you two can stop laughing!" he exclaimed with a filthy look at Varric and Fenris, who weren't even trying to hide their amusement.

"I'm going to scrub this off, right now!" Fletcher started to stand, but Anders grabbed his arm, pushing him back down in his seat.

"I wouldn't bother, Hawke; all you'll do is make your face sore. That stuff won't budge."

"Well, a fine old night this is turning out to be!" Fletcher whined, resting his chin on his hand, his cheeks turning pink through indignation and booze. "And I'm the only one of us who's even bothered to dress up!"

"It's not all bad, Hawke," offered Varric, glancing around the room. "Word is that _you_ stand to take first prize tonight. Just look at the rest of the outfits. Pathetic!"

With a sigh, Fletcher scanned the room, looking at the half-arsed attempts at costumes that the other punters had made. "You're right, Varric," he answered, somewhat placated. "I'm the only one with the tattoos."

With a nudge from Fenris, Fletcher turned to face him. "And no one but you is wearing a cloak, either," the elf reassured him with a faint smile, which Fletcher returned.

"That's probably because the Hero of Ferelden doesn't _wear _them," Anders reminded them with smug superiority.

"Shut it, Henna Boy," retorted Fletcher. "And how do you know that, anyway? Did you spend every waking moment with him? How do youknow for _certain_ he didn't wear cloaks?"

"I _know _because one day we were walking through Amaranthine and we saw this poncey noble wearing a cloak. Maur'ae said a cloak is an affectation and he wouldn't be caught dead wearing one."

"Oh, and you've let me sit here all night without telling me that until now?" Fletcher bristled, wrestling with the ties of the 'cloak' until a small hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Leave it on," commanded Fenris in a hushed voice, his eyes fixed ahead as he elegantly took another sip of wine.

"Well…I suppose I _could_, just for a bit," said Fletcher, his and Fenris's eyes slowly meeting as their companions rolled theirs and looked away.

"When you two have finished making puppy eyes at each other," said Varric, "it looks like they're getting ready to announce first prize! Get ready to stand, Hawke!"

~o~O~o~

Pushing open the splintered, woodworm-riddled doors, I was immediately assailed by the stench of sweat, stale beer and smoke. As I placed a handkerchief over my mouth, a chuckling Zev led me to a corner where we would be able to assess exactly what kind of _theme night _this was.

It definitely wasn't Templar Night. Not, unless, the templars of Kirkwall walked around with twisted tree branches stuck to their backs or wore bed sheets, some of which had distinctly suspect-looking stains on them. Or had several teeth missing and didn't bother to shave – or wash, by the looks of it – for that matter.

I shuddered again, and noticed Zev's head tilt to one side. "Perhaps it is Ghost Night?" he ventured. "Or _Filthy _Ghost Night," he amended with disdain. "Although…should they not be wearing the sheets over their heads?" Zevran was smooth in the worst of situations, but I could tell that even he was stumped.

"No, wait! It's a village idiot convention," I said uncharitably, but, in my defence, these people didn't give me much more to go on that that. "Do we really have to stay _here_, Zev?"

"We do, unless you fancy being roughly manhandled by armoured brutes who are wielding rather large weapons? Because, if you do, I am prepared to sacrifice the chance of being entertained here. For your sake, of course, mi carido."

"How very generous of you," I muttered, and he sidled closer, his warm breath tickling my cheek.

"There is another alternative, of course…we hire a room here, and we discuss this _game _I have in mind, yes? And we leave these happy idiots to go about their happy idiot business."

"Does this game of yours involve mages and templars, by any chance?" I smirked.

Zevran shrugged and nonchalantly fingered one of his knives. "Perhaps, if such a game would be agreeable to you. Or, as you have had such a trying day, a massage first, and then _you _may decide which game we play," he whispered, again looking at his daggers.

"You're on," I breathed and grabbed his arm, looking around for the landlord, but then the crowd surged forward and a rather grubby-looking man hopped up onto a small platform.

"'Ere!" he shouted, and Zev laughed at my look of disgust; did no one in Kirkwall _not _drop their aitches? "I'm 'bout to 'nounce the winna 'vour first evva feam night! Raise yer glasses to the 'ero of Ferelden!"

"The 'ero of Ferelden! Maker bless 'im!" roared the crowd, and I slunk further into our little corner, horrified that my 'title' – which I hated anyway – could be made to sound even more hideous than it already was.

"What, exactly, do_ I_ have to do with their _first evva feam night_?" I asked Zev fractiously, but he didn't answer, a strange smile lighting his face, and I was forced to listen as the articulately-challenged host continued.

"I can see ye've all gone to a lorra trouble," he declared optimistically, and he glanced around, trying to localise the derisive snort that came from somewhere in my vicinity. Clearing his throat, he went on: "I fink, though, that they's one who done put more effort into 'is costume than anyone else. An' I fink we all know who that is…get yerself up here, Fle-!"

"'Old yer 'orses!" another oik yelled out, his loud, coarse voice cutting into me as keenly as any blade, his rheumy, bloodshot eyes out on stalks as they stared at someone close to the door. And that someone was me. "Will ye take a gander at this 'un? 'E really _does _look like the bleedin' 'ero!"

An awed hush fell over the room, which came as quite a respite, until a quiet snigger to my side was swiftly met with a well-aimed elbow. And then he just _had_ to speak, didn't he?

"Are we to assume that this is…Hero of Ferelden night?" asked Zevran in his sweetest, most innocent voice.

"You mean you dint know?" replied oik number two. "You mean your friend 'ere goes around dressin' like that all the time, then?"

"Yes…a _remarkable_ coincidence," I answered with vitriol.

"How do these people even know what 'the hero' looks like?" I whispered to Zev, who was quite disgustingly amused by the whole affair.

"The happy idiots seem to speak with the Fereldan dialect," he offered helpfully.

"Refugees," I realised. Just what I sodding needed.

"Well, it looks like our new friend 'as just made a late entry!" announced oik number one, picking up a small string purse containing what sounded like coins. "An' I fink we 'ave a new first place!"

"_What_?" cried an outraged voice from somewhere at the back. "I've had henna tattoos done, you know! You hear me? _Henna! _Do you know how long they last? _Weeks_, that's what! And you're telling me that someone can just march in off the street and snatch first prize from under my nose?"

An indignant, red-cheeked man squeezed through the crowd, and, I have to admit, he _had _made an effort: the tattoos were pretty good, if brown; he wore a black wig and even had a pair of elven ears to complete the look. Apart from the heavy velvet drapes he had inexplicably wrapped around himself, he could easily have passed for me…if I'd gained about five stone.

Still, he was rather cute, so I saved my scorn for our silver-tongued compere.

"Now, come on, 'awke, we don't want no trouble," he began.

"_Any_," I corrected him with a sigh. "We don't want _any_ trouble. Alternatively, you could say, 'we want no trouble'. _Either_ would be acceptable."

I could almost hear his little brain whirring into life, but it appeared that a gear or two had slipped as a very strange expression came over him. "Guh?" he blathered. "You tryin' to be funny, like?"

"What my friend is trying to say," interjected Zev with a slightly nervous laugh, "is that we do not want any trouble, either. We came in search of a bed for the night, but as your, er…_charming _establishment appears to be full, we shall trouble you no further."

See? This is why it's always handy to have a Zevran around; he always knows when to step in before I offend the locals. But, honestly, some of these people just _need_ to be told.

"Hey!" another, more educated and refined voice called from the rear of the pub. "I know that voice! Maur'ae? Is that you?"

And I know _that _voice. A voice spoken in the speech pattern unique to those raised in the Circle Tower of Ferelden: a curious blend of the stiff, perfectly-enunciated Fereldan of the templars, the cut-glass but gravelly accent of the first enchanter, and the patois and slang of the apprentices. The accent _I _speak with. I'd know it anywhere.

Anders. Bloody Anders, of all people!

"What? Maur'ae?" babbled my cute double. "Maur'ae Surana? _The _Maur'ae Surana?"

"Is there an echo in here?" I snapped, furious that my cover was broken. Although I suppose it wasn't the cute man's fault; in hindsight maybe I shouldn't have _dressed _like Maur'ae Surana. And then gone and walked into a Hero of Ferelden theme night.

The cute man, however, did not take offence, but stepped closer, grinning maniacally with his huge white teeth. "Ha! Anders did a pretty good job with those tattoos!"

After a moment to allow the locals' stuttering brain processes to absorb this new information, they descended on me as one, and once again the handkerchief came up to my mouth as a shield against their breath, which, in combination, became more than the sum of its parts. If only I had a handkerchief for my ears, which were battered with countless variants on, "Cor blimey, it really is 'im!" and "Stone the bleedin' crows! It's only the 'ero of fackin' Ferelden! Maker bless ya, mate!"

"Zevran!" I bellowed above the nonsensical din. "I want to hire you for a job! Immediate start! In fact, make that about _seventy_-_four_ jobs!"

"Ah, your faith in my skills stirs me deeply, but, as you know well, I work better on a one-to-one basis," Zev purred into my ear, his hand – at least I _think _it was his hand – brushing against my buttocks. "Or, on occasion, a one-to-two or three basis."

"Not now, Zev! Let's just get out of here!" I moaned, and then there was a flurry of sweaty limbs and the smell of mud, dung and unwashed bodies as I was slowly but surely steered somewhere towards the back of the pub. Thankfully, I'd managed to push my handkerchief over my nose in the nick of time, before I completely lost any sense of control or direction.

And then, hearing a door slam, I found myself in a small room with five other men, some of whom were gawking at me. Thankfully, Zev was among them. There was also the cute guy with the big white teeth, a beardless dwarf, and a white-haired elf who looked like a cat about to pounce on its prey. And there was Bloody Anders. And he was hugging me.

Introductions would have to wait, however, as frantic banging came at the door, along with chants of, "'ero! 'ero! 'ero!"

Well, now I really _had _had enough. Pushing Anders off me, I slumped into a chair and covered my face with my hands. "This is exactly what I was trying to get away from!" I whined. Poor Zev. I really was whining a lot, lately.

The cat-like elf then moved towards the door, reaching for the handle. "What are you doing, you fool?" I cried, but too late; the door was flung open and the elf stepped out into the gaggle, and I braced myself for more dungy-smelling limbs.

And then, all fell silent.

The elf moved slowly among them, glaring at each one in turn, and, after a few mutters, the crowd began to disperse and move away from the door. The elf then re-entered the room, closing the door behind him, and his cute companion threw him a dazzling grin.

"They were irritating me," explained the elf with a shrug.

"Now _that _was impressive, friend," Zev complimented him, his eyes moving back and forth between the white-haired elf and me in a gesture I recognised well. I slowly shook my head, so his eyes started darting between me and the cute guy.

"No," I said firmly.

"Still as convivial as always, eh, Maur'ae?" Bloody Anders twittered.

"Well, yes, I might be a bit more _convivial _if _someone _hadn't announced me to a packed pub!" Sighing, I looked up at Bloody Anders. Maker, he looked rough. "What are you doing here, anyway? And what did you do with Justice? We _seem _to have mislaid him, right around the time you sodded off, in fact."

Bloody Anders then embarked on a seemingly-interminable account of his every movement over the past two years. And then, when he mentioned the templars, I did something _really_ stupid and told him they'd been after us.

Well, that was it. Even the cute guy – who I suspected was a mage – rolled his eyes as we half-listened, occasionally nodding our heads, to Bloody Anders's well-worn templar and Chantry diatribes. But hey, he'd moved up in the world, at least: he now had a _manifesto_. Oh joy.

"Thank you for that, Blondie," the beardless dwarf – introduced to me as Varric – said once he could get a word in edgeways. Obviously, he had Zevran's charm. "Now we need to figure out what to do. First, one of you claim that prize money. That's five sovereigns up for grabs, there; you can figure out who won it when we get it back. Second, we need to get our hero out of here. You can't stay in Kirkwall, my friend; as Blondie explained, the situation with the templars is outta hand. If you guys had any other stops planned on your journey, I'd recommend moving on."

"He's right," Bloody Anders stormed. "The templars would love nothing more than to have the Hero of Ferelden as one of their puppets!"

I saw Zev's hand go to his chin, which meant he was thinking. "Actually…I wished to visit Val Royeaux at some point during our journey. If…our '_ero_ would agree?"

"Orlais? Why would you want to go there?" asked the cute mage – Fletcher – while I shot eye daggers at Zev.

Zevran glided over to Fletcher and whispered something in his ear. Fletcher frowned at first, and then his eyes lit up. "Really? I didn't know that!"

"Si," nodded Zev. "It is true. I just need to be…persuasive, that is all," he said with a crafty look at me.

"Do I even want to know?" I asked.

"_I_ do," demanded Fenris, the scary elf with the white hair.

"I'll tell you," Fletcher said to Fenris, waggling his eyebrows, "…one day."

The scary elf was not impressed. Funny, I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but he and Fletcher reminded me of someone.

"You know, as luck would have it, a ship's departing for Orlais tonight," said Fletcher. "I was down at the docks this afternoon, enquiring about some cargo bearing the seal of the Orlesian Port Authority, and I overheard."

"Then we need to get 'em down to the docks," Varric decided, pushing out of his chair. "We just need to figure out how to do it without 'em being mobbed. Anyone have any ideas?"

My new friends made several suggestions, most of which were rejected after flaws were pointed out. During these discussions, I saw Fletcher's eyes narrow and move to the side: he had something, but seemed reluctant to give voice to it.

Eventually, as a thoughtful silence fell, he cleared his throat. "Would you all excuse me and Fenris, please?" he requested, a little nervously.

The dwarf jerked his head toward the adjoining room, and we followed him in single file, all wondering what Fletcher had in mind, and why Fenris looked like he wanted to murder him. The door was closed, and we all busied ourselves by looking as though we weren't listening: fingernails and boots were examined, and the ceiling was scrutinised to its smallest detail. And then, all pretence fell away as Varric and Zevran almost knocked each other over in their rush for the door.

We listened. For several minutes there was near-silence, punctuated by occasional murmuring and nervous laughter, followed by lengthier and lengthier silences. And then we all jumped out of our skins at the very emphatic "No!"

That was definitely Fenris. We held our breath and pressed our ears against the door.

"Oh, go on, Fen…you could-"

"The answer is _no_."

"I'll make it up to you." Zevran's face brightened, and I had a feeling that Fletcher was flashing his most charming smile at Fenris. I also strongly suspected that some smooching and fondling were afoot.

More silence followed, but then Fenris's quiet "how?" gave us all sudden hope.

And then there was whispering. We tried, but no matter what, we could not hear what was being said.

"And I may invoke this anytime I wish?"

"Anytime you like. Except now, maybe. That probably wouldn't be advisable. But it's up to you, Boss."

Another, shorter, pause followed. "Once a week, henceforth."

"Once a _week_? But-but I'm not sure if I could-"

"Those are my terms." The lilt of Fenris's voice gave the impression that _he_ was smiling now.

"What's he say?" Varric whispered.

"I did not hear," Zev whispered back, "but I could offer many possible choices. The emerald-eyed one sounds pleased with himself, no?"

We all leapt back, then – well, Zevran and Varric did, because I was definitely _not_ listening – and the slightly-scary elf stood before us, his face like stone as a single, dark eyebrow twitched. "Busy?" he asked in a commanding voice, and a shiver travelled down my spine; I got the feeling he could be _very _commanding. Zev noticed my expression and gave me a nudge as we were ushered back into the main room, and I immediately plastered a scowl back in place.

"Maur'ae," Fletcher began, "Fenris has very kindly offered to act as a decoy and to draw the crowds away for you. With any luck, that'll take the templars' attention off you, as well."

I could tell from Fenris's demeanour that there was no way in the Void he'd _offered _to do anything, and I wondered exactly what Fletcher had offered him for his decoy services. "Let us have this over with," Fenris groaned to Fletcher.

Clothing was exchanged, although Fenris refused to disrobe in front of us and dragged Fletcher into the room next door, where another discussion/debate/argument might have taken place, judging from the hissed (Fenris's) and conciliatory (Fletcher's) utterances and silences.

At long last, they stepped back in, Fenris now wearing my robe, Fletcher's black wig – leaving the mage with a fine head of springy brown curls - and two smudges of soot around his eyes.

"Ha! Fenris the Mage!" Anders cackled, stopped dead by a murderous look from both men.

"Don't you _dare_," Fletcher mouthed from behind Fenris. He then rubbed Fenris's arm. "You look very convincing, Fenris." And then he tried to lighten Fenris's mood by offering, "Would you like to borrow my ears?"

"No, I would _not _like to borrow your ears! I have my own, in case you hadn't noticed!"

"_Twice_ a week?" Fletcher asked quietly, and, like magic, the hard lines and angles of Fenris's face softened, and a faint flush suffused his cheeks.

"Only if you feel you could manage it," said Fenris quietly with an awkward shrug.

It was at this point that my theory about Fletcher and Fenris was confirmed. You see, Zev and I are very much _together_, but now and again, we don't mind if others are together _with_ us – enter our little circle, if you will. With those two, I could see that their circle consisted of two, and two alone, and no one else was invited to join. I felt disappointed by that, as I quite liked them, but I knew that Zev wouldn't be deterred; in fact, he'd see it as a challenge. A discreet look at him confirmed this.

"Well, my handsome new friend," Zev said to Fenris, "I shall be your escort," he offered, straightening his tunic as he turned to Fletcher. "And do not fear, my other handsome new friend; no harm shall befall him. I see that he is dear to you."

"He is," Fletcher confirmed. "And I will ensure that no templars will get their filthy hands on Maur'ae, although I doubt he needs my protection."

"I don't," I answered with a smirk, "although I wouldn't turn it away if it was offered."

For the next part of the story, I have to rely on what Zev told me, so it _might _be open to exaggeration.

He led 'me' through the filthy patrons of the Hanged Man, who followed them outside. He then threw a smoke bomb and led Fenris into a dark corner of the square, where they had to stand very closely to each other for several minutes until the crowd had dispersed. This was the first time Zev propositioned Fenris, who responded with a very polite 'no'.

Zev tried his luck again on their way out of Lowtown, this time receiving a much firmer 'no' in reply.

Zev propositioned him seven more times after that on their way to the docks, eventually desisting when he was threatened first with violence and then death.

Then, after a pitched battle with a dozen templars who all wielded jagged, poisoned swords (and this is where I'm leaning towards slight exaggeration), Fenris congratulated Zev on his skills and, when he was propositioned for the tenth time, he laughed and shook his head. At that point, Zev told Fenris his theory that, if Fletcher were present while the two of them became better acquainted, then it couldn't really be called cheating, could it?

Back at the Hanged Man, the coast was now clear as the rabble had been cleared out, and so after saying farewell to Anders (I did feel a little pang when he hugged me again, but don't tell anyone I said that) and Varric, Fletcher and I silently made our way to the docks.

My attempts to proposition Fletcher were met with laughter; in fact, he laughed at pretty much everything I said. One thing I really enjoyed about his company was that there was very little mention of Archdemons, and how much of a hero – or 'ero (shudder) – I am. He'd seen the marks on my wrists and confided in me that he also knew blood magic, and we compared notes. Very interesting fellow, indeed. He did advise me not to let Fenris see my scars, but apart from that, he didn't judge me, and I can't tell you how refreshing, and welcome, that was.

Anyway, thanks to Fenris and Fletcher's plan, we all met up safely at the docks, where Fletcher, Fenris and I hid next to the harbourmaster's office while Zev secured passage. While we waited, Fenris removed the soot from his face, revealing very pretty eyes, but then again Fletcher had the most dazzling smile. I had a feeling, though, that Zev was very much in favour of Fenris – ha, assuming that they'd even step out of that little circle of theirs – so I did whatever I could to coax more smiles out of Fletcher, which wasn't that difficult. He really was lovely.

When Zev returned, he passed me two tickets – which I suspect he didn't pay for – and then, after several attempts, he picked the lock of the office door, inviting us inside. A torch was lit, and the bolt was slid across the door.

"Well, well, our brave friends," said Zev with a grin that bordered on a leer, "we simply _must _demonstrate our gratitude."

"Oh, there's no need, really-"

"That will not be necessary-"

Both men spoke at the same time and Fletcher then chuckled, while Fenris smiled faintly.

"We insist," I said with a lascivious smile, moving closer to Fletcher, and I could see that Zev was advancing on Fenris. "Just a small token, between friends."

"That's _very_ nice of you," laughed Fletcher, "but…we're together, Fenris and I."

"And so are we," countered Zevran, slowly kneeling in front of Fenris, who gulped quite loudly. "But being _together_ does not prevent us from being _grateful_. What say you, friends? Where is the harm?"

"And I'll need my robe back, anyway," I added.

"Um, w-well, it's not really up to me," stammered Fletcher as I rested my hands on his hips and began to slide his robe upwards. "F-Fen is the boss. What he says goes."

All eyes turned to Fenris, who looked at Fletcher and shrugged as Zev ran a hand down his robed thigh. "I suppose if both of us are present…?"

Fletcher looked utterly stunned for a moment and then that lovely smile of his spread easily across his face. "Like I said, Fen, you're in charge." He took Fenris's hand, and Zev and I proceeded to show them both just how grateful we were for their assistance. And then we swapped and thanked them again, just to make sure they got the message.

~o~O~o~

"Off they go." Fletcher waved as the ship moved out of the harbour, and he and Fenris waited until it was almost out of sight. "Just think, Fen; we can both say we've been personally _thanked _by the Hero of Ferelden."

"So long as that is _all_ we say," quipped Fenris, and they turned away from the dock, hand-in-hand, and slowly walked away.

"Are…we all right, Fen?" Fletcher asked anxiously. "I mean, this won't affect us at all, will it?"

"I do not see why it should. After all, it was merely a gesture of gratitude. Between friends, of course."

Fletcher pulled Fenris close and kissed his cheek. "And now I feel _I _should thank you for what you did. It couldn't have been easy for you to masquerade as a mage."

"If you feel a need to thank me, then I will not stand in your way," said Fenris with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And I, of course, will thank you for thanking me."

"Let's go home, then," whispered Fletcher.

"Yes. And you _will_ be keeping the cloak on, won't you?"

"Absolutely. The ears as well, if you like." The pair wrapped arms around each other and quickened their pace as they headed for home.

"By the way," Fenris murmured. "Exactly _why _are they going to Orlais? Why the secrecy?"

"Well, as I said, I'll tell you another-"

"Tell me _now_."

Sighing, Fletcher pushed a hand through his hair, looking abashed. "Well…Zevran told me not to tell Maur'ae, but I suppose it would be fine to tell you. The thing is, Orlais is the only province of Thedas where same-sex marriage is legal."

After a pause, Fenris turned his head toward Fletcher. "Really? Interesting."

"It is, isn't it?" answered Fletcher.

Both men looked away from each other, one grinning like an idiot, the other doing his best not to, and their steps quickened further, their grip on the other's hand tightening.


End file.
